The bus is packed, so I’m standing, holding onto a hand rail. The bus is relatively quiet, only a soft murmur of conversation every now and then. This is usually when I let out a little fart and then count how many people look over. For each person who looks over, I fart again. It’s a cruel game. I’m trying to work out my opening fart, when this girl behind me starts talking on her phone. At first it’s civil, I can deal with this. A-OK. I’ll just play my game next time. After awhile, however, things start to go south. DEEP south. REAL DEEP.

She starts to yell into her phone– but so she doesn’t sound one note, she also cries into her phone. I make a grimace of slight discomfort as I take a small step away from this woman. I don’t want to hear any of this, and nobody else does either.

“Listen! MOM! HE’S going to keep doing this forever! Why are you doing this to me?” She sobs into the receiver.

While she says this, I almost simultaneously think to myself, “Listen! Kyle! She’s going to keep doing this forever! Why is she doing this to me?”

I tell my brain to snap out of it. That we can make it, but after 15 straight minutes of sobbing and yelling and whispering and then seeming to forget that whispering is an option, I have to admit to myself that she is putting me through a great amount of pain.

“What? No, I don’t have his fucking money!” She screams. Several people in the bus look away. I’m getting desperate.

I pull out the $6 in my wallet and nervously hold it out to her. She doesn’t notice me for some time, because she has her head between her knees, choking out each word. I poke her in the head with my keys and wait for her to look up. Eventually she does. Good. Oh shit, maybe not. She looks terrible. Sometimes people look ugly when they cry.

“Here…give him this…” Cha-ching, I think.

“What the fuck is this?” She asks. She seems ungrateful. I’m hurt. I really want to call my room mate from the bus and cry to him about how mean the girl is, but I fear this would make those around me uncomfortable. I wish she would’ve thought the same.

“It’s money…for your…dad or whatever. Now you can be quiet. I fixed everything!” I smile widely and hold out my hand for a down low five.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

I’m a little offended. I want to give her a lesson in gratitude, but I don’t. Instead, I just raise my hand up like I’m going to hit her. Then when she flinches, I make her let me hit her in the arm 3 times. Those are the rules.

People in the bus don’t seem to like this. They express their anger by trying to talk to me about how inappropriate it was for me to trick her into playing a child’s hitting game. I then lift my fists up really fast and watch to see which people flinched. I try to hit them each three times on the shoulder, but before I could finish, they remove me (by force, what children) from the bus. I’m mad. I stomp around at the bus stop for about 8 minutes, cry for about 6, then fall asleep until dinner time. My room mate shows up about that time and carries he home in his strong, Polish arms.

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Graduation is so fucking boring. Am I right? I feel bad for all the thousands of people in the audience who have to wait patiently for “Robert Kyle Irion, Degree in English, Minors in Psychology and Awesome,” then wait through another few hundred or thousand meaningless names. I just thought I’d throw out some tips for the administration to look at to make graduation less of a beating.

1. When I walk across stage, I want to feel that I can safely booty-bump UNT President Gretchen Bataille without fear of suit or assault from security.

2. As each department head enters the coliseum, the announcer should also say their height, weight, and place of birth, like in a boxing match.

3. Pyrotechnics.

4. Graduations are so predictable. I want to introduce a little bit of suspense to the proceedings. Therefore, I say we have one “Wild Card” degree. As each students pass by the podium, have their name called, whatever, there is a giant pendulum swinging back and forth above the pile of fake diplomas. If the pendulum stops over the pile when your name is called, you can’t graduate. LOL

5. Have a drawing with all the seat numbers in the coliseum. If your name gets called, you get a MARINE BIOLOGY DEGREE!

5. Every graduate is handed a sword. A master samurai is stationed in front of the diploma stand. You want it? Go get it.

6. Those two old men from the Muppets sit in a balcony above the stage and make fun of the graduates as they pass by.

"Hey!If he doesn't do something with that beard, he'll be a 'Bachelor of Fine Arts' forever! DOOO HO HO HO!"

11. Instead of diplomas, we’re given things we can use, like job experience or handfuls of cash.

12. Gretchen Bataille is lowered from the ceiling by a cable. There are sparklers affixed to her feet and a white light shines from behind her. A cheap knockoff of the overture from “Jesus Christ Superstar” plays. Hundreds are offended and leave almost immediately. Once the prudes leave we bring out some strippers.

Shit. I have to leave for graduation in 15 minutes. I might need to start getting ready. Not nervous yet. Maybe once I get there. I’m going to miss college.

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In the last two days, my blog has had roughly 250 hits. Yea. Money. Speaking of money, I should be seeing a lot more of it very soon now that I’m internet famous.

This fame (money) is going to change my life forever. I’ll never be the same. Soon, I’ll be blogging to you from the top of my pile of gold coins, typing on a platinum laptop with ivory keys. I want you all to come along for the ride with me (not in the limo, though. organize carpools). So, I’ve just kind of ran down some of the things that will change now that I’m famous (rich).

I think the first thing I’m going to do is just “drop” pants. Pants aren’t my scene. I like the idea of walking around, feeling the sun radiate off my Casper-white thighs and into the unsuspecting retinas of the less wealthy. You ever seen me without my pants on? If you’re able to read this, probably not.

The second thing I think I’ll do is buy a lot of the stuff that I’ve always wanted. I’m going to go to the nearest Sharper Image Circuit CityK-Mart Best Buy and get a really big refrigerator. Then I’m going to buy tons of delicious food to put in it– food from all over the world: lobster, caviar from the Mediterranean, wild Spanish chicken, Cheerios from Britain (Which, over there, are actually called Hellos.).

Third, I will buy a gun.

Fourth, I will start only hanging out with people as famous as me. So, consider this a formal goodbye to all my friends who aren’t Barack Obama or the Pope. Hello to all my new friends, Barack Obama and the Pope! Oh yea, and I’ll definitely make time for the Hoff every now and then–but only while I’m in German–which will be like, all the time after I commission a team of top scientists to develop a jet pack for me.

Pictured: Me

Fifth, I will buy the Crocs™ Shoe company and then promptly close it.

Sixth, in a form of musical experimentation, I will use my seemingly unending wealth to reinvigorate the careers of MC Hammer, Poison, and Billy Ray Cyrus. I will then see who succeeds in today’s musical climate. The winner gets to keep being famous. The losers have to live in my dungeon.

Seventh, build a dungeon.

Eighth, buy a real big coat.

Ninth, I’ll pay the writers from LOST to come to my house and explain to me HOW THERE ARE THREE JOHN LOCKES ON THE ISLAND. After their explanation, which I’m willing to guarantee will still leave me confused and irritable, I’ll have them put in my dungeon.

Damn you.

Tenth. I will go on a magical boat ride with John Goodman, Eddie Vedder, Conan O’ Brien, and Shaquille O’Neal. I will blog about it. I will also Tweet about it. When I’m doing that, I will upload hundreds of photos to my facebook of me and Conan climbing Shaq and shaving Eddie Vedder’s eyebrows while he’s asleep. When Eddie wakes up, we’ll talk him into helping us make a raft that looks like it was built out of a portion of the hull and push a passed out John Goodman out to sea on it. We’ll then surround the raft with little pieces of flaming debris and sail away. He’s going to be SO PISSED. Lol. John.

The last thing I’m going to do is finally give the studios all the funding they need to create my biopic: Irion Man. It’s going to be a lot like Iron Man, but with fewer explosions and more shots of my junk.

Sauntering Uncomfortably into Theaters: Summer 2010

Get excited.

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I make a lot of jokes on this page. I make up a lot of whimsical yarns about a man (myself) that does incredible, earth-shattering things. But really, I’m just a regular guy– I’m just like you (if you had a bounty of god-given talent, good looks, and piles of money in your closet).

In honor of how normal I am, this entry is completely, 100%, true.

Here’s a true story about me in my music appreciation class freshman year.

Background info:

Attire: I’m a freshman, so of course, I’m the coolest guy in the room. I have long, curly hair, a headband, brown Pearl Jam t-shirt and torn jeans. I am wearing no shoes.

About like this.

Setting: I’m in a large room with extremely high ceilings. This room was built to house music classes, so the acoustics are fantastic. I’m surrounded on all sides by people. There are roughly 40 people in my class. At the front of the room is the professor, a lovely, curly-headed woman that reminds me strangely of Arnold from The Magic School Bus.

We’re listening to audio samples of various composers: Bach, Mozart, Schumann, Brahms, the works. The room is cool. There’s a door on the east wall of the room that’s open to the outdoors, letting in a subtle breeze. At this point in my freshman adventure, I’d given up the idea of ever going to bed before 2 am (I can still remember at one point thinking how awesome it would be to get to bed at 1 am). The previous night, I was up until 2 or 3 am and woke up at around 8 the next morning. I’m tired as hell. I have all early morning classes, because I’m still under the idea (propagated by UNT staff at orientation) that morning classes were a great way to get the most out of my day, to get my classes “out of the way early.”

Anyway, Ι’m sitting int his class and…hold on a second. I think I just realized something. Pretty much since freshman year, all my friends and I have tried at all costs to avoid early classes. All the UNT orientation staff were upper classmen…who hated morning classes…and every one of them told me to take morning classes. So if they wanted to ensure that some freshman wasn’t going to take their seat in the 2:00 poli sci class, they needed to be sure he took it in the morning. Shit. I was conned by those I trusted to guide me. So hurt. I however appreciate my 2:00 classes, so I will in no way attempt to change this situation.

Back to the action.

So, I’m sitting in this class, slouching (in order to really give off that ‘aloof genius’ look) with my arms crossed (because I’m also vulnerable, and it’s the closest thing I can do to hugging myself in public). The music is quiet and soothing, with little or no talking between samples. I’m incredibly comfortable and incredibly tired. All that stuff I mentioned before, the cool room, the breeze, the lack of sleep, the music, it’s all created a “perfect storm” for dozing off. As I lean back, I feel myself drifting in and out of sleep. My head starts to nod forward or back, then I wake up and it’s jerked upright. This is uncomfortable to my neck, and you’d think comical to those around me, but after a couple of these classes, this spectacle seems as natural as somebody taking notes.

I keep slipping into sleep, beginning to dream for a few seconds, then shaking myself out of it and trying to pay attention again. It felt like I was dreaming every time I closed my eyes. The last time, I close my eyes and dream I’m in bed, so I stop fighting it, thinking now it’s ok to go to sleep because, well, I’m in bed. Blissful. A few seconds into my sleep I feel a kind of bubbling in my stomach, like air trying to escape. But hey, what the hell? I’m in bed. I’ll just take care of it here and now. So, while still asleep, I lean over slightly and let out a huge, echoing fart. It’s so loud it wakes me up. I open my eyes and look around, completely embarrassed. I try to play it off and just look straight forward, but it’s no use. The girl next to me is looking directly at me, and when I make eye contact she immediately averts her gaze. Oh yea, she heard it. Everybody heard it, and I could tell with absolute certainty when every single person glared at me as they left the room.

Shortly after that I deficated in the Music Building bathroom and took a nap on some grass outside. All in all, a pretty good day.

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May 8th, 5:00 pm- UNT registrar closes, deadline to turn in forms for commencement has ended. My forms are on a counter in Waxahachie, Texas. Shit sandwich.

May 10th, 10:08am- I return to my home for Mother’s Day.

May 10th, 4:36pm- My mother hands me a legal size envelope from UNT.

I thought it was just a card for the speaker so he doesn’t mispronounce my name. This is a pretty important card. I can still remember the time I forgot to turn in my pronunciation card in high school: “Patrick Husted…(here comes my turn)…Dick Face (that’s not how you pronounce my name)…” I hated high school. Anyway, yea, I needed to turn in this card before 5:00pm Friday. I opened the letter and found the card on the 10th– two days late. I’m gripped with fear. Fear that grabs me around my wrist and squeezes real hard. Real hard. Real Hard 2: Real With a Vengeance. Real Hard 3: Real Harder. Live Free or Real Hard (Real Hard 4.0 in Japan).

What am I supposed to do? How can I remedy this misunderstanding and get this card turned in? There’s an entire framework of bureaucracy standing in my way. I’m not afraid of bureaucracy–unless it’s a ghost bureaucracy; those do scare me pretty good.

I decidedthat although the deadline had passed, I’ll still go up to registrar Monday morning and turn my card in, as if nothing was going on. To fool the person at the front desk, I decide to wear exactly what I’d worn the previous Monday. 4 days earlier than the deadline. I’ll fool them. I also set my watch back to 8:32am from the previous Monday (I later realized that 8:32am looks the same no matter what day it is.)

I wake up extra early on Monday. I’m going to get a head start on this bitch, catch the registrar staff off gaurd while they’re still fresh off sleep, tired, bitter, wanting so bad to return to bed. Not me, though. No. I’m going to get some Shit done (“shit” should be capitalized when it’s about something important).

The registrar is inside the Union. I go in and look around for the biggest, toughest looking registrar staff member to fight in order to assert my dominance. University politics are a lot like prison politics.

I find a dude and punch him in the back of the head. He beats the living shit out of me. I hate getting punched in the mouth and eye and cheek and jaw and head and side head and back of the head and stomach and ribs and arm and I think balls once because they hurt.

Brushing myself off, I walk up to the desk.

“Hello, sir. I have this card for graduation.”

“We stopped taking those Friday.”

“I understand that, but you see, this envelope was in my hometown, so I never got a chance to open it and read it, I–”

“You can go upstairs and talk to Records if you want.” I did want to. I did.

“I do want to.” I say. My palms lay flat on his stupid desk counter thing. I spit. He beats the shit out of me again.

Anyway, I go talk to records. At the time I think “Records” is a human being with way too much power. I walk upstairs and begin beating on a nearby table.

“Records! I want Records! Where are you, you coward?!” I hold out my arms and spin slowly, welcoming Records’ aggression.

“WHERE ARE YOU, RECORDS?!” I scream. Then a small voice from the side of the room says “Over here, sir, Records and Graduation Information Office is this way.” She was really. For the briefest of moments, I let my gaurd down. perhaps “Records” isn’t all that bad after all. I hold out the paper I was told to turn in last Friday. She just takes my card and says “No worries,” when I start giving her my justifications. No big deal. All fixed.

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As a part of a speaking tour I’m doing, I stopped by a local Civic Center and offered, out of the kindness of my heart (and $30 a ticket),to give a sex seminar. Now I’m no expert, but I’m definitely a sexpert (What?) and I feel it’s my obligation to share my knowledge with the good people of [Insert Your Town Here!]. By the way, I saw your parents there. Gross.

The room is set up with amphitheater-style seating. The seats and flooring are all black, lights shine from above me. I’m wearing a headset. In keeping with all the public speakers I’ve seen on TV, I’m wearing a tight fitting black t shirt and slacks, with a large ring on my right hand and a look of undeserved superiority. “Look, everybody. Look how smart I am. Look how much you need me.” That’s what my appearance says. That’s also what my mouth says. The audience responds with absent-looking stares and questions about parking. They’re eating out of my hand.

Seats all filled, I turn on my microphone and breath deeply. “Kyle…prepare for glory…” I whisper to myself. I forgot that I turned my microphone on. No bother, they needed to hear that anyway.

“Ok, everyone. Welcome to the ‘Kyle Sex Seminar for People Who Like Sex.'” People look around happily. It seems many of them do in fact like sex. Good start.

“Who here has a penis?” I ask. Many of the men raise their hands; others abstain. I assume that the ones abstaining are just ugly women.

“Who here has a vagina, or ‘penis holder,’ as we’ll refer to them for the rest of the Seminar?” Several women raise their hands. Those who do not seem to be offended. I have no idea why. Perhaps they’re just beautiful men.

“OK, we’re going to do sex talk now. Please remove all children. They piss me the hell off.” Scattered chuckles as I stare stone-faced into the crowd. I clinch my fists.

Right now, I’m trying to assert myself as an authority figure– someone to be trusted.

“Let’s open up with a light Q&A session. Who’s got a question?” I open my hands as if I’m about to accept a hug. One audience member in the front row stands tentatively and inches toward me with his arms open. I maced him. I had to. MACE him. MACE him.

“Kyle, I have a question.” A young man in his upper 20’s stands up.

“Go ahead.” I say

“Me and my girlfriend,” he motions to a woman seated to his left, “We have chemistry problems. We…I can’t seem to…stay erect for long periods of time. I just lose it too early…you know?”

“No, I don’t. Go on.”

The man stiffens (no pun intended) and then seems to do something with his hands to signal that he has something to say.

“No, it isn’t. Please take your seat. Okay, let me ask you a question. What do you think about while you’re making love?”

“Usually my girlfr–”

“That’s your first problem. You think I think I daydream about cruising down the California coast in a Honda Civic? No. I think about driving down the California Coast in a sterling silver Millennium Falcon. You should do the same.”

“I don’t want to go to California, though.”

“You’re not going to California, man. It’s a metaphor. Think about somebody interesting while you have sex– someone you can never, ever have sex with in real life– like John Stamos or Ron Howard. Think about bangin’ Uncle Jesse; that’ll get your rocks off.” I make a gun with my finger and *click* at him.

“Next question?” This time a woman stands politely and waves to me. I wave back. She waves at me again and laughs. I flip her the bird and tell her to get on with it.

“All right,” she says, “How can I turn my husband on? I’ve tried everything, but I just c–”

“Lose 20 pounds.” I should not of said this. Time to evade.

“What?” She asks.

“What?”

“Did you just tell me to lose 20 pounds?”

“No. I told you next question.”

“What?”

“Okay, next questiοn.” I survey the audience. “You sir, in the back, yes.”

“Kyle, what makes you an expert on sex anyway? I also feel that someone should ask how you got into our Homeowner’s Association meeting and why we had to pay you $30 for this crap.”

“Phil. May I call you Phil?”

“That’s not my name.”

“Okay, well, Phil. For your first question, as to how I’m an expert, I’ll put it to you this way: I’ve had sex with a lot of women, somewhere between two and a thousand– but closer to three. I’ve also watched porn–and one time I might of heard my room mates having sex.” I pause for a moment, “Not with each other, with women.” I stop to giggle. “Is that enough for you?”

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I always want to start my blogs with “Hello.” I think from now on, it’d be more appropriate to start my blogs with “Welcome back.”

“Welcome back.” Wow, that does sound better.

“Welcome back.”

“Welcome back.”

As the wisest of wise men, I often get questions from lost and terrified readers. They are lost–they are terrified. I’m here, though. Today’s blog is a mail bag. Eat this, internet.

I hear that you are the know it all to every question to man. Well sir, I must know, what is the origin of name for the beloved chocolate candies, M&Ms? -Ben, Denton TX

Well, Ben. I gotta say I love M&M’s, and I’m assuming you love them too. One of the “M’s” was for Forrest E. Mars Sr., creator of the M&M. The other M was for Bruce Murrie, son of then Hershey president William F.R. Murrie.

What? You wanted a joke? I don’t joke about M&M’s. I also don’t joke about dogs, terminal illness, and water. Water just isn’t funny.

I was watching “That 70’s Show” last night and Bob gave Red a pair of shoes and Red stated that shoes are an inappropriate present between dude friends. What are some other examples of this phenomenon, which I dub “bromance gifts”? Dan, Plano TX

Oh, what a fine show. Yes, there are a few things a man should never give another man as a gift. Here’s a quick list:

1. Sex and the City DVD’s. (Really, these shouldn’t be given to anyone, man or woman.)

2. Erotic undergarments

3. A framed picture of yourself

4. Clothing of any type not affiliated with a sports team or favorite band

5. Syphillis

6. A hug

Are you calling me a coward? Jack, Sweetwater OK

Listen. No. But if I was, it’d be ok, because I’m never wrong. If I make a character judgment on a person, I’m right 100% of the time. Watch this:

Bad.

Good.

Bad.

Good.

Bad.

Misunderstood.

So, eat it. You are a coward, Jack from Sweetwater OK.

Hello Kyle. I have a friend here in my hometown of Denton, TX that keeps sending me notices every time he posts new material on his blog, and it’s getting incredibly irritating. How do I stop this?Paul, Denton TX

Paul, you get the fuck over it.

Kyle, for years now me and my wife have been having great sex. Recently, though, with economic stressors, tension in our marriage has risen and I’m afraid the fire has gone out. How can I please my wife sexually?

What music do you listen to while you make love? I’ve found that I like to listen to a lot of different types of music, depending on what kind of sex I want. If I want romantic sex, I’ll listen to something with a little more of a sultry tone.If I want passionate sex, I’ll listen to more aggressive music. If I want dirty sex, I’ll listen to something particularly naughty. Other than that, if I want generic, just above mediocre sex, I’ll listen to The Rolling Stones or Bob Dylan, you know, shit. [Editor’s Note: Kyle doesn’t really have sex, he “Kyles.” So next time you’re swapping manly stories with your friends, just say “I was Kyle-ing this chick last night” or, “I was givin’ her the Kyle driver.”]

Hey Kyle, remember that one time you and I got to level 26 on Nazi Zombies? That was awesome. Sam, Denton TX

Yes. It was. I’m not even going to make a joke about that because I also don’t make jokes about art.

This economy is really worrying me. I just don’t know what to do. I’m scared about my future and the future of my family. What advice can you give a provider when faced with such unsure times?

Chris, Fort Worth TX

Chris, my first advice to you is to not quit your job. Also, don’t get fired from your job. If you’re laid off, simply shake your head no, hand your pink slip back, and continue working as if nothing has happened. Your superiors will either be too confused or afraid to kick you out. How many people do you know that refuse to be laid off. None. You will from that point on receive your payment in cash, directly from your boss’s terrified wallet.